


1 Missed Call

by A_Punk_Called_Bowie



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Break Up, M/M, Sad, Short Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:10:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Punk_Called_Bowie/pseuds/A_Punk_Called_Bowie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wondered what Gerard looked like right now. His hair sandy and natural for the first time, hunched up in a kitchen chair, phone pressed to his ear, the darkness swallowing everything around him, but the skylight let in just enough of the moon to illuminate his face eerily. He imagined what Gerard would say, his voice probably almost inaudible in the night, trying not to wake up Lindsay or Bandit. Suddenly the violent vibrations stopped, and the “1 Missed Call” icon appeared, telling him what he had already known."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madison/gifts).



> Just therapy really. I will make a follow up. This isn't a series (not yet anyway) most likely just a two shot.

Frank’s not sure when it all really started. When his whirlwind of a life came to a screeching halt, when breathing felt less natural and more calculated, when talking began to seem more like stalling, when his days started to feel more numbered and the hours longer, and other times time seemed to be on fast-forward, and he was clawing desperately on the tail of it, watching it slip through his fingers like sand, when he started feeling desperate for something he couldn't really pinpoint, when looking in the mirror was the worst part of his day. When Frank started music, he never wanted all this fame and fortune; he just wanted to play music. He was lucky he met Mikey, a dorky 19 year old sitting in a rickety 24-hour diner booth with his friend Ray, steaming coffee in hand. He’s lucky Mikey introduced him to his spooky, basement dwelling comic-artist brother who seemingly never saw the sunlight. But Frank doesn’t feel lucky. He should be happy lying in his soft, tempurpedic bed that is supposed to help his back (but really he just got it for Jamia when she was pregnant with Cherry and Lilly), sleeping next to his amazing wife, in a nice house in New Jersey, his favorite place in the entire world, and all of his dreams a reality. It had been roughly a year since the break-up. Music stopped flowing all the sudden, every word was treading on thin ice and finally, a fatal phone call shattered it like glass. Frank could go an entire day without thinking of the band or Gerard, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, it was like a stake was driven into his chest. His hands became heavy as if he had two bowling balls resting on them, his body became weak and he is sure sleeping with himself at night would be like sleeping with the dead and an hour later, when Miles has been put to bed, and he is sure Jamia’s asleep, his shoulders start to shake. A few times Cherry came in from a bad dream or Miles woke Jamia and him up, and they had fiercely attempted to figure out why Frank was crying for days. He always had an excuse. The truth is the only person that knew was on the other side of the country.

So here he was like clockwork, lying on his soft tempurpetdic bed, in the middle of the night, wrapped in his favorite mint green comforter he bought two years ago for Jamia’s birthday, the moonlight elegantly peeking through the blinds, making a fluorescent white striped pattern on the carpet. Just like every night, his hands were heavy and his body was weak, as nostalgic memories passed through his mind, his shoulders started to tremble. He watched his Iphone screen light up, just like every night. Frank knew exactly who it was, but he stared at the name in wonderment like always, as if it this didn't happen at one or two in the morning like routine. And he sat there, and just watched it vibrate vigorously. He wondered what Gerard looked like right now. His hair sandy and natural for the first time, hunched up in a kitchen chair, phone pressed against his ear, the darkness swallowing everything around him, but the skylight in his kitchen would let in just enough of the moon to illuminate his face eerily. He imagined what Gerard would say, his voice probably almost inaudible in the night, trying not to wake up Lindsay or Bandit. Suddenly the violent vibrations stopped, replaced by the “1 Missed Call” icon, telling him what he had already known. A distant snore from Jamia erupted through the room, but the blood roaring in his ears made it hard for him to hear. Right now, Gerard was probably making a cup of coffee, his feet pattering softly on cold tile that he remembers Gerard asking if Frank liked about two years ago. He knew in the past, he would have answered the phone in a heartbeat. Listening to Gerard and forgiving and forgetting, but it’s been 12 years of forgetting and forgiving and Frank has grown weary of listening to Gerard plead to him. He has become frustrated with all of Gerard’s impulsive decisions, him calling Frank up at 4 AM telling Frank he wants to end the band was the last straw. Maybe in a few years, when Frank has healed and he has moved on and Gerard has stopped calling, Frank will listen to those voice mails, and read the letters and on some crazy night, when the planets are aligned, as he watches the sunset alone is his backyard, or with the assistance of a few shots of fiery whiskey burning his throat, someday, maybe Frank will call him back.


	2. Moon Hanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's got hands reaching for his and mouths calling his name that aren't the right hands, they aren't the right mouths.

He's at William's, a party recklessly tearing apart the house. Laughter's buzzing throughout the people. Half-dead smiles thrown carelessly. In theory, he should be celebrating with his friends, but he's found that it's much harder to pretend you're okay at night. Something stirs inside of him, aches in his very bones. The winter air breathes into his hair and he can't seem to untangle the knots twisted in his stomach. The last days border between insanity and depression. He tries not to think of /his/ name, it turns to glass in his mouth. Strangely it's so much easier to be alone in a crowd. He's got hands reaching for his and mouths calling his name that aren't the right hands, they aren't the right mouths. He hasn't seen /him/ in years but he can still see him in the world. He can feel his fingertips pushing through his hair when the wind blows. He can hear his voice in between the rain and thunder and it's been a long time since his head lay upon his pillows, but he can still smell him when he tries hard enough. Eyes glassy, he scrolls through his contacts and stops at /his/ name. His lungs seize and his heart races violently in his chest just seeing /his/ name sitting there, glowing at him. Daring him to do something about the pain his chest. The alcohol in his system swirled his anxiety and usual timidness into a memory. A dream. With a hesitant press of his finger, he put his phone to his ear.


End file.
